I woke up today having completed a goal I’ve been after for the past year – I finally signed with a new agent. Well, technically, he’s a manager, but he used to be an agent, and in LA they’re almost the same thing.

The best part about this was that I was able to get in juuust as a perfect role for me was posted, a recurring lesbian gf part on New Girl. Now, due to unforeseen complications, I unfortunately wasn’t asked to audition, but that was more about timing and not at all to do with me or my marketing materials. And it pushed the envelope regarding why I need a rep working with me on this whole career thing.

As much as I’m learning to take control of my life, to create the opportunities I want to enjoy myself, and to not wait around to be “validated” by anyone, there is an unparalleled sense of security that comes with knowing someone who’s been in the business longer than I have is rooting for me.

This doesn’t mean I will work any less hard. But it does mean that today, I am awesome.

The short version of my week is that I went over to Las Vegas to visit my folks a week ago, and then this past weekend was LA Pride. The long version is that I went out to Las Vegas to continue to feel like a failure as a daughter and adult, and subsequently to lose money (and a bit of hope), and then wait over six hours for my 45-minute flight. Clearly, awesome.

Oh, and to add insult to injury, my mom insisted on buying me a new girl bra, even though I patiently explained again that I rarely wear those kinds of bras, but she insisted I needed at least one, which required a FITTING by an old Las Vegas lady who was clearly a former exotic dancer and gave a huge effort towards not looking me in the eye. I chose to believe she was convinced I had put money in her g-string at some point in the very distant past. It made the experience bearable. I felt like a hog being trussed.

Part of what I love about the online butch blogging community (of which I am still a very new and small part) is the acceptance of the spectrum of butchness.

One of the (very tiny) downsides of seeing my awesome trans friend T this past month was the realization that we once were sitting very close to each other on the very butchest end of the rainbow, and now, 10 years later, we’re each at totally different points. T went on to join a whole other spectrum. I envy his facial hair. I moved ostensibly back towards a more feminine center. He appreciates my dedication to a career that forces me to be 100% visible.

Admittedly, I freaked out a little about how “girly” I was in comparison to him. I mean, sure, I still wear almost all men’s clothing, keep my hair cropped, and do all sorts of butch things like build stuff and swig bottled craft beer on a daily basis. But there’s other stuff that has creeped in due to my profession – like I keep my eyebrows groomed impeccably. Days when I have auditions, I wear some under-eye concealer. The man bag I carry is often mistaken for for tomboy purse. I only wear plaid shirts with excellently paired solid ties and vests.

In the middle of this freak out, my gf just looked at me and giggled. “Look at all the other people in this (hip, vegan, queer-filled) restaurant,” she said. “You are WAY more butch than any of them. Sure, you and T have moved in different directions, but you’re still on the same end of the spectrum.” She held her fingers up, an inch apart. “This is the distance between you and T. These other women, even the queer ones, they’re WAY the fuck over there.”

She also pointed out what I chose to title my blog. My whole identity is wrapped up in this dichotomy. How pretty can you be before you’re no longer butch? And vice versa? And according to whom? It’s such a weird line to walk on, since I’m balancing my art and my profession and my weight and my shyness and everything, and at any moment I may tip the scales in a different direction. Some days I think I must be nuts, and I wish I could go off and move to Portland and hide away as a web designer, lounging my days away in a craft beer haus, wearing the shabbiest, manliest shirt I can find. (My gf thinks this is a sexy idea.) But we need to be seen. So first, I need to be brave enough to keep walking.

Look: Oh man this butch was super cute. Denim overshirt with sleeves rolled up. Dark skinny jeans (she’s more of a man than I, for these). Brown tight-laced workboots, but stylish ones, not John Deere ones. And her haircut… close cropped, almost military.